


puppet

by theo_aurel



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Statement Fic, crack statement fic??? i guess???, god i am so sorry for this, i wrote this in an hour fuelled by three coffees and the dread of disappointing my friends, inspired by a shark puppet??? like, the hand ones?, this is the worst thing i've writtten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-08 02:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20282854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theo_aurel/pseuds/theo_aurel
Summary: Statement of Joseph Rader, regarding his experience at a puppet show and a - a shark? Oh God, this is going to be a tough one. Statement given 16th August 2017, audio recording by Martin Blackwood, Assistant to Peter Lukas.





	puppet

**Author's Note:**

> this is complete crack and i blame CJ for this. 
> 
> (inspired by a pic of a shark puppet)
> 
> (this has not been betaed and jonny sims i apologise for this)

_Statement of Joseph Rader, regarding his experience at a puppet show and a - a shark? Oh God, this is going to be a tough one. Statement given 16th August 2017, audio recording by Martin Blackwood, Assistant to Peter Lukas. _

This is going to sound nuts. A killer shark? A. what shark isn’t a killer and B. this is the Magnus Institute, not the fucking life-guards. But hear me out, please. Just a few sentences, and you’ll see why I came to you.

First I should start with something about myself, I suppose. I work at a B&B down in Cornwall, grew up there as well. Ever heard of Gweek? Didn’t think so. My days are filled with stirring endless vats of beans, or meat, or dough; endless empty smiles to a string of endless empty tourists. August is the worst - the sea’s cold, but the air is hot for England, and people want to escape the stifling bubble of the city. Can’t say I relate, if I’m honest. Cities seem so busy, and are away from the sea. They don’t smell like fish and piss.

It was earlier this month when they first appeared. A touring puppet show, “bringing joy to lizards,” their wagon read. Strange typo, but oh well. Touring novelties aren’t a rarity in Cornwall - off the top of my head I can find the whereabouts of the haircut van, or the travelling fish and chip shop. They’re at Gweek on Wednesdays, if I recall correctly.

But Gweek is roughly half an hour from the Lizard - yes, the Lizard is a village not an area, I know it makes no sense - so I struck up a conversation with the woman who seemed to be leading them._ They did know where they were, right? It’s getting late, you won’t be able to find a room in the Lizard now._ All I got in response was a mysterious - no, a knowing - smile from the woman. I shut up quickly, and found them their keys.

Coming to think of it, she had almost plasticky looking skin. Weird that, huh?

I didn’t think any more of them to be honest. Weird people come through the B&B all the time, especially in the summer - I once had this duo who came in vaguely smelling of blood, and talking about vampires? Bit unnerving, but they probably had something for Twilight. Heard that’s making a resurgence nowadays. And even if the leader wore a full ringmaster outfit in 30C heat, or one member - the one with a glass eye - constantly seemed to be wearing a puppet on his right hand, I’d seen weirder.

That damn puppet.

It was a grey shark’s head, teeth as big as its eyes. I’ve always hated sharks, ever since my teacher showed us a piece of shark-skin in year two.

“If you touch it the wrong way, it can cut you, so be careful Joseph!” I remember her saying. “Did you know a shark can smell a droplet of blood from three miles away? That’s why you have to be super careful!”

The skin felt like sandpaper. I cut myself, of course, and the blood dripping onto it looked a lot like water.

Ew. Still gives me shudders now.

Anyway, the puppet business unsettled me proper.

A few nights into their stay - around the 10th August, I think - Ben, my boyfriend - husband, sorry, since June - told me that a puppet show was going on that evening: “The field the car boot sale is? The one near Porthleven - yeah, apparently some circus, or puppet show, is hosting a show there tonight. Moby Dick apparently, or maybe Gawain - Ciara told me, you know how she is! Anyway, we haven’t been out in a while - do you want to go? We can go to The Lighthouse afterwards if you want to, get a beer.”

So we went. 7:30 it started, just as darkness was starting to fall. It was, in fact, Moby Dick. Shame. Gawain is so much better, although that could be the literature nerd jumping out. The production itself was nothing special - good enough puppets, no missed lines, alright lighting. (Moby Dick itself is a shit story, though. Enough with the fucking albatross!) There was one - _interesting_ \- direction choice, however.

The titular whale, with the interesting name of Moby Dick, was not portrayed by a whale puppet. Centre-stage - centre-frame? How would you refer to that? - was that bloody shark puppet. Its eyes were expressionless staring orbs, but I could have sworn it was glaring at me. But, I didn’t think anything of it - just a trick of the light, playing on my fear, nothing to worry about. We went to The Lighthouse afterwards, got pissed to high heavens, and I woke up the next morning wearing Ben’s shirt and clutching my head.

The next day was a Monday - I have them off, typically spend them with Ben sleeping off our respective hangovers - Cornwall is good for two things: fish and chips, and alcohol. Trust me on that. But that Monday Ben had to go into work in Falmouth, poor sod, so I decided to walk into Helford. It’s a nice walk, maybe an hour at most. You walk along the river for most of it, maybe pop into a friend’s for a cuppa. I arrived in Helford just as they were opening the pub, so maybe at 1? 2? O’clock?

I got a pint from there, and made my way down to the port. Helford is a lovely village, hardly anything there though. I started talking to an old friend of mine - Josh Hutchinson, if you need his name. He invited me out onto his boat, as he had been planning on taking the kids round the Lizard that afternoon but they had a sailing competition? I think?

Still, I accepted the invitation, and spent a glorious forty-five minutes sailing past Porthallow, waving to the tourists at Nelly’s Cove. It must have been when near Coverack when I saw it.

A single, solitary, grey shape. Looked sort of like a lopsided triangle, if I’m honest. Sailing straight through the water parallel to the ship. I thought it was a bit of rubbish at first - some bit of tourist tat, or something thrown from a cargo ship. It wasn’t until I realised that it was accelerating faster than the tide did I start to get freaked out.

Didn’t point it out to Josh - by now I was well and truly hammered (whoever came up with an on-board fridge is a genius) and didn’t think much of it.

We arrived at the Lizard, rested for an hour or two, then started our way back. By then I had sobered up a little bit, so when I saw the shape again, I freaked out. Josh told me not to worry, made a bad joke about my land ass or something.

Still, it unsettled me.

He dropped me back at Helford, and I started to make my way back. By now it was starting to get dark - Ben had texted, saying _he had made dinner - where did I keep the blue dishes?_ \- so the walk was far more...eerie, is the best word. Even though I knew that area like the back of my hand, shadows still twist your mind to blood and doom, and any shape in the river looks like a body.

I could have sworn though, I saw a grey shape in the river moving against the tide.

I hurried up after that. I returned home at maybe 11 o’clock, and had dinner with Ben. Much as I love him, he is no cook.

The next day I went to work, and my first table was that troupe. One of them - the pianist, I think - asked me what I thought of the show. I replied positively, and went on with my day. The glass-eyed one was still wearing the shark puppet, and smiled at me.

I spend my breaks by the river, right. I saw the shape again. Now that river is more of a brook, so there is no way any sort of fish larger than a goldfish could move through there. Still, it was moving towards me at an alarming speed.

I ran. Didn’t stay to investigate it. By now, I was certain that I was either going mad, or England had a serious problem with its seas.

Over the next few days, I saw the shape - the shark - again and again. The glass-eyed man was still smiling.

It wasn’t until I saw it in the bathtub that I realised who could be causing it. I didn’t know how, but it was somehow the troupe. Agents of the devil? I’m not religious, but you turn to anything if you’re scared enough.

Two days ago the leader of the troupe - Orsinov, her name was - approached me, along with an actor: “We plan to leave tonight, Rader. The money will be on the table.” I just nodded, too scared to respond properly. She walked away, muttering something about _Sims_ and the _House of Wax, that’ll do nicely_.

She was obviously a nutter. Who puts on a production of Moby Dick in the middle of nowhere, at the height of tourist season?

I saw them all leave. I saw them pack their bags, load them up into the wagon, and drive off north. Maybe they were headed to Falmouth, despite their sign. I saw them go. I promise. I even saw the fucking puppet.

My shift that night was on cleaning, so it was my job to clean the recently vacated rooms - it was still mid-August, so the quicker I could do it, the better. I gathered the supplies, and shuffled my way to the rooms (16-18, if you wanted to know). It was only when I had opened the door, and started to mop the floor that I saw it.

Lying there, on the mantle-piece, taunting me.

The shark puppet.

It was gloating in expression, eyes light up with the fire of sadism and bloodthirst.

I quit my job the next day. I left the puppet there, but I’ve still been seeing the shape - no. The fin. It’s hunting me.

I’m its prey.

It got a taste for my blood when I was a child, now it wants the rest of me. Let its blood spill on its skin.

Statement ends.

_Well. What the fuck is this. _

_Joseph Rader exists, obviously. There are records of him working at Liz’s B&B between 2014 and 2017, and a marriage license from June 2017 issued for him and Benjamin Thompson-Rader. _

_What also exists, is a death certificate, issued September 17th, 2017. Apparently his body was found on the rocks near Kynance Cove, close to the Coverack mentioned in Mr Rader’s statement. This would be ruled as a suicide, except for the fact that his body was covered in large bites - his right hand was missing, and his skin had been dyed red from the large quantity of blood surrounding him. Shark blood. _

_What is more concerning, however, is the reference to Orsinov. Nikola, probably. Presumably the troupe was the Circus of the Other, or a special groups. Huh. The idea of a black-ops type Circus is exactly Nikola’s style. This also must have been just before the Unknowing - don’t know where she found the time to torture people in Cornwall of all places._

_ What intrigues me as well, is the connection to sharks. Surely they would be a more slaughter object? They could be extinction as well - the reference to almost “blood for blood” sacrifice seems to be nature’s revolt against human actions. This could be a new fear as well - no. No-one’s scared of sharks that much. Still, this is very concerning. I have to tell Jon about this - wait. I can’t do that, can I. Not anymore. Oh God, what mess have I got myself into now? _

_Recording Ends._

**Author's Note:**

> ,,,this is easily the worst thing ive written but if i had to write it y'all had to read it


End file.
